


Repeat.

by trash_devil



Category: Shin Megami Tensei: Devil Survivor
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Murder, Sibling Incest, or both I guess, or cousin incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 09:11:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15838200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_devil/pseuds/trash_devil
Summary: Prompt: The Tokyo Lockdown ends, as it always does. Kazuya has lost track of how many times it's been now.In which Kazuya mulls over his choices from past routes he has taken and wonders if it has all been in vain. He's sick of it. He's sick of them all saying their lines over and over like it's a scripted play. Though in a way, he supposes it is one.





	Repeat.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glyph_0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glyph_0/gifts).



Blackness.

“Hey, Kazu!”

Those two words shot down the vague, flickering hope rising in his chest. Nothing had changed. He looked up at his friend.

His friend… Was it him? This Atsuro, all of the Atsuros, had only the first been real? Had any at all? Or were they nothing more than an accessory to his torment, a tool, a weapon, a placeholder for the real thing? Did the real thing exist at all?  
Was he just going insane?

“Kazuya?” A hand waved in front of his face. “You’re spacing out on me again.”

Kazuya sighed heavily. These little deviations from the script only proved to him how unchangeable it was. He was the only variable, and though the world shifted slightly to accommodate his behavior, it was never enough to lead to a different end. Nothing significant changed.

“Wasn’t Naoya supposed to meet up here?”

“That’s what he said,” Kazuya answered. But he’s not supposed to, he wanted to add, he never has. He bit his lip and looked up at the sky.

Blue, for now. Just like his eyes.

Atsuro was still talking, but Kazuya couldn’t muster up the energy to listen or to care. He had all the lines memorized by now. 

He could act out this play by himself.

Which is why when Atsuro asked, “Are you okay?” it stuck out like a sore thumb.

“... What?”

“You… Are you sick? Is something wrong?” His brow furrowed with worry. “It’s just that… You look so tired.” He placed his hand on Kazuya’s cheek, and he felt an electric tingle at the contact.

Last cycle, Atsuro had…

No. This was not that Atsuro. He slapped his hand away, a bit more forcefully than was necessary.

Atsuro looked at him with hurt-puppy eyes.

Kazuya realized he didn’t care. There were no consequences in this world that reset itself every week. It didn’t matter if he upset this Atsuro, if he loved the last one. Didn’t matter if he killed Amane with his own hands once, if he sided with her the next time around. If he let Keisuke die, or Haru, or Gin. None of it mattered. None of it would set him free.

But… He had never gone truly off the rails. Never ripped up the script and ground it beneath his heel. A twisted grin split his face.

“Kazuya?” Atsuro said in that soft, sweet voice of his. Oh, how Kazuya wanted to hold him close, kiss and bite and leave him begging for more.

He resisted. This is not the Atsuro that clung to him at night, sobbing over his fallen friends. He had not held this Atsuro’s hands or told him his feelings or kissed him on the lips for the first time.

He turned his back on this Atsuro, ignoring the cries of, “Wait, Kazuya!” and the more familiar call of, “Hey, Naoya told me to give these to yo- “

\---

Kazuya sprinted all the way to Aoyama on muscles long pushed past exhaustion. Every lockdown, he was the only thing that changed. Not only his memories, but his hunger, his tiredness, his too-sharp teeth and Bel-tainted blood.  
Perhaps there was a point to this after all.

… Probably not.

His tongue pressed up against his fangs.

That Aoyama murder was sounding strangely delicious. He shook his head and tried to clear the thought from his mind. Eating dead bodies might be off-script, but it wasn’t exactly a productive use of his time.

He shoved his way past police tape and panicking people, eyes focused on that white-haired head that stood above the crowd.

“Naoya!” he yelled.

His cousin turned, cold snake-smile already in place. And then he stopped. For a moment, the shock showed on his face, and Kazuya wanted to laugh at the raw emotion of it. He grinned widely.

Naoya tried to marshal his face back into a smirk, but hatred and disgust still shone clear in his eyes.

Oh, how he hated seeing his little brother like this. Abel had been soft. Abel had been small and frail and delicate, gentle hands and innocent eyes.

Kazuya was not soft. Kazuya was everything Abel was not, it seemed, and Naoya hated looking at his brother’s body hardened and wasted away.

Worse now than ever, he thought, staring at his whip-thin cousin, his bones beginning to claim dominance over his baby fat, his knuckles scabbed, the bags under his eyes as dark as bruises. He hated watching Abel’s body change under Kazuya’s ownership, like a priceless work of art thrown to the floor.

“Our meeting here was not meant to be,” Naoya said.

“Preaching to the choir, bro,” Kazuya answered, taking tiny sadistic pleasure in the expression that flickered across his face at the mention of both “preaching” and “bro.”

“... Excuse me?”

“Lemme tell you, if it weren’t meant to happen, then it wouldn’t happen every time.”

Naoya’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to wipe that impudent grin off Kazuya’s face. “And how would you know?”

“How does it feel, Naoya? To have someone else hold the cards for once?” He laughed at Naoya’s speechlessness.

Yuzu’s voice rang out from somewhere beyond the crowd. “Kazuuuyaaaaa!!”

“Your friend is calling.”

He snorted, “To hell with her.” He linked his arm around Naoya’s. “All this time and I still don’t know what you get up to during the week! Perhaps I should spend some time with you, Mr. Tall, Pale, and Handsome.”

He was feeling more uncomfortable by the second, but the disturbingly demonic look in Kazuya’s eyes told him that it wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

“Some… Personal time.”

\---

Naoya hissed in his ear, spoke in words he understood but did not know, in a language that had been dead for almost as long as Abel. His fingers tangled in Kazuya’s hair as he pressed his breaths into the mattress. His tongue recoiled from the sheets. Sweat and dirt and blood and worse sweat and tears and blood and worse.

He whimpered out a tiny noise. Naoya pulled back his head, allowing him a brief and blissful taste of oxygen before shoving him back down into suffocating fabric.

“I’ve killed you before, I’ll kill you again,” was what those guttural words meant.

“Cain,” he gasped the next time he was allowed a breath.

“... What did you say?”

“Cain,” he repeated. The pressure on his body shifted slightly, and he seized the opportunity to roll out from under Naoya’s weight. He lay there, chest heaving, trying to choke out his next few words before Naoya could think twice about letting him go. “Cain, how many times has it been? Dying, living, dying?”

He pressed his knee into the boy’s hollow stomach, forcing the air out of his lungs but leaving him with enough breath to speak. “What do you know of such things?”

Kazuya wheezed out a laugh. “At least you get some fucking variety.”

Naoya pressed harder. “What do you know?”

His lungs struggled to expand with a faint, shuddery squeak. Blood flecked his lips. “I wouldn’t mind that,” he whispered, “Being destroyed and reborn anew, over and over and over. A new life.” His shaking fingers brushed Naoya’s cheek, traveled down his neck, his chest, ghosted along his leg. “Do it, brother. Let us dance again.”

Naoya nodded slowly. His thoughts felt fuzzy and distant, as if his mind were covered in fog. He watched himself pull back, then slam the full force of his weight into Kazuya’s ribs with a sickening crack. He saw himself do it again and again, crushing his bones like a bird’s.

Maybe Abel was still fragile after all.


End file.
